


An apology interrupted by murder

by umbrafix



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack always feared that one day another man would sweep Phryne away from him – what if, post season 2 ep 12, one had tried? In which which Jack gets jealous, is foolish, and then investigating a murder helps fix everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An apology interrupted by murder

In the days following George Sanderson and Sidney Fletcher's arrest, Jack doesn't get the chance to see Miss Fisher again. Though he is taken off the case due to his relation to George, there are endless statements to give and write up, and his actions are questioned again and again by people of increasingly high rank. Every night he goes home exhausted and then still can't sleep.

 

The biggest initial problem at work is the lack of a commissioner and deputy commissioner, and the scramble to appoint new ones takes several days in itself before they can even begin sorting through the rest of the mess.

 

Then there is the large question mark over whether Jack's version of events will be accepted at all – George has a lot of very well placed friends, not to mention the pull Sidney Fletcher must have – and for the first week Jack's job and reputation balance on a knife edge.

 

Fortunately the newly appointed commissioner, after grilling him in a private interview for almost a day, comes down on his side. Jack feels incredibly shaky afterwards, as though his whole life has been turned inside out. He thinks about dropping by Miss Fisher's house in the evening, and letting her tease him back into good humour over a glass or two of her excellent whisky. That's what he _wants_ to do.

 

He feels awkward about the way things had been left between them; he would have kissed Phryne that night, given another second without interruption. He still wants to kiss her – it feels like every barrier he had erected in front of his feelings for her had been blasted through in that last case together. He thought he'd lost her again, and this time more than once in the same evening. In the moment when he shot Fletcher, he hadn't been sure for a second if Fletcher had fired too. Then, when he'd gone to see her - wanting to reassure himself that she was safe and whole, wanting to _be_ with her - all she could talk about was Rosie.

 

Rosie, whom he had dropped off with her sister, but who was now phoning him every night in tears. Last night he had just let the telephone ring, unable to summon the energy to answer. Rosie, whom Miss Fisher had seen him comforting at the station. Phryne had obviously drawn her own conclusions from that, since he was such a 'noble' man, and Jack is worried that in the intervening time she will have continued drawing them.

 

He drives to her house before he can think the better of it, and sits parked opposite for nearly as long as he did on that night a week and a half ago. However many time's he's been to visit Miss Fisher, before that night he'd never done so without having even the smallest pretext for arriving uninvited. He feels as though he's laying himself bare; showing too much of himself in admitting his desire to spend time in her company.

 

Shaking his head, he resolves to just relax and get on with it and reaches for the handle. That's when he sees them in the dying light, Phryne and a gentleman friend. They stop in front of the gate to her house, and her head tilts back as she laughs. Jack feels like it's suddenly slightly harder to breathe.

 

After almost kissing her, he's been thinking about doing so again every moment since. Clearly, she has not been suffering from the same problem. Despite himself, he's dared to hope there might be some new understanding between them. That perhaps all they need is one look, one conversation, and they could be together. He'd thought she would be willing to wait for that.

 

The gate opens, and Jack registers the next minute in a series of snapshots: Phryne taking the man's arm, turning and smiling her come-hither smile, a quiet, intimate discussion by the door.

 

He slams his hands down on the steering wheel and looks away. It had been a foolish idea to drop by anyway. 'Until our next murder investigation,' she'd said; no invitation to make contact sooner. He starts the car, hoping she won't see him, and drives away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Having decided to ignore the problem of Miss Fisher for the time being, luck conspires against him the following day. When he asks Collins if he would mind staying a little later in order to finish off some of the paperwork to close up their part of the Sanderson case, the constable hesitates.

 

“Actually sir, I was hoping to leave on time today? It's just that I wanted to take Dottie out. We haven't had much chance to see each other for almost a week. And since Miss Fisher's out tonight, Dottie's free. I thought we might-” Collins keeps talking, but Jack's attention is diverted.

 

“Yes, yes. Of course, I can manage. Miss Fisher's out tonight?” Collin's nods. “Has she got a new case? Should we expect another murder at any moment?” It wouldn't be out of the question where she's concerned, and to be honest he could use the distraction. He's had enough of corrupt policeman and the kidnapping of young girls to last a lifetime.

 

“Oh, I don't think so, sir. No, Dottie says she's going out for dinner with a count. Or a baron. Or – I'm not sure, actually, sir. Apparently he's very impressive.”

 

“Good,” Jack says. “Good. Well, have a good night, Collins.” He walks calmly back to his office and slams the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day things at the station are finally, _finally_ , back to business as usual after the whole fiasco. All of the officers from other divisions have left. All of the interviews are over. Jack has a small stack of case files on his desk – nothing urgent – and no one looking over his shoulder any more. He locks the door to his office and settles down to catch himself up.

 

At lunch time he is drawn out of his office by a pleasant savoury smell, and he finds Collins unpacking a familiar looking hamper. His stomach rumbles.

 

“Good afternoon, sir! Would you like some lunch? Dottie packed enough.”

 

“And how is Miss Williams?” Jack asks as he accepts a slice of pie.

 

“Very well, thank you, sir.” Collins beams. Some days he's so young and earnest and in love that it hurts to look at him. This is definitely one of those days.

 

“I think I'll eat in my office.” Jack isn't sure he can take half an hour of hearing about the virtues of Miss Williams today.

 

“Oh. Of course, sir.” Collins puts his lunch down, and hastily tidies the hamper. “Here, why don't you take this in with you, I've already taken my food.”

 

“Thank you, Collins.”

 

As Jack eats his lunch, his mind wanders. Did Miss Fisher know that Miss Williams was bringing lunch for her sweetheart? Might she have suggested that extra be packed for him? Or was this just her companion's usual thoughtfulness?

 

Sometime after he's finished eating, he hears his constable step into the back, and on a whim he slips out of the door, hamper in hand. Someone has to return it, after all.

 

“This really is a terrible idea,” he mutters to himself as he gets out of the car. But it's been so long since he's talked to Phryne; even five minutes in her company will do wonders for his mood.

 

Mr Butler opens the door and ushers him inside. “I'm afraid both the ladies are from home at the moment, sir,” he explains as he takes the hamper from Jack.

 

“I see.” Jack is disappointed, more than disappointed. He hadn't realised how much the anticipation of seeing her had built up in his gut until it turns into a heavy, sinking feeling.

 

He's about to thank Mr Butler and ask him to tell her he stopped by, when his eye is caught by the large floral arrangement sitting next to the phone. More particularly, by the corner of an envelope peeking out of it. Jack knows that a lot of people might be sending Phryne flowers, but somehow his brain is instantly convinced they must be from the gentleman of the other night. Or from this count, or baron, that Collins had mentioned. 

 

“I wonder if I could leave a message.” Jack makes a show of patting down his pockets, conveniently managing to miss his own pen. “Could I trouble you for-”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Failing to find a pen by the phone, Mr Butler vanishes around the corner. Very conscious of the fact that he is doing something unacceptable, Jack walks forward to take the envelope. The back is unsealed, the front merely reads 'Phryne.' He slides the card out and reads it.

 

'My Dearest Phryne,

 

You have utterly bewitched me. Please tell me you will accept my invitation for tonight?

 

Yours,

 

R'

 

Jack hears Mr Butler's step, and quickly replaces the card. He steps back just as the butler rounds the corner.

 

“I'm sorry, Mr Butler, I must go.” There is a sour taste in his mouth, and he desperately wants to leave. “Thank you for all your help.”

 

“But-” Mr Butler holds up the pen and pad of paper.

 

“Oh, I'll tell Miss Fisher another time.” Jack hastens out of the door.

 

Back at the station, Collins catches him as he comes through the door. “Did you happen to take the hamper with you, sir? Only, Dottie came by to pick it up and-”  
  


“Yes, yes, Collins, I took it back,” Jack says.

 

“Oh, well that's good, sir. I'm sure Miss Fisher was very glad to see you.” The words sting, more than they have any right to. “Dottie was saying that Miss Fisher is-”

 

“I'll be in my office, Collins. I'm not to be disturbed.”

 

Jack works industriously for the rest of the day. He tries not to let himself think of Phryne with another man. This man that she has bewitched. When his shift is over, he digs out the half full bottle he has stashed for a rainy day, and proceeds to drink all of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack is tired, hungover and still wearing yesterday's clothing. When he hears Miss Fisher's cheerful voice greeting Collins outside, he thinks he is hallucinating for a moment. It is not a good morning. When she bursts through his office door, he resists the urge to bang his head on his desk and tries to look as composed as possible.

 

“Miss Fisher.”

 

“Jack!” she says, as though she's truly delighted to see him. She sits in the chair opposite him, looking elegant as usual. “Mr Butler said you wanted to talk to me?”

 

“He must have been mistaken.” Jack says, dry mouthed.

 

“Really, how strange?” Phryne shakes her head, and he is slightly mesmerised by the way that her hair swings back and forth. “He said that you meant to leave a message, but had to run. I thought I'd stop by and save you the trouble.”

 

“You could have just telephoned,” he says. Why has she come to see him _now_? When his head hurts, his stomach is rebelling, and there's no way he can maintain a coherent conversation. All that's running through his mind is 'she's seeing someone else,' and all that's concerning the rest of him is a strong desire to lie down in a darkened room.

 

“Well, yes,” she says, and he forces himself to focus on her. “I could have. Are you alright, Jack?” she asks, as if it's only just occurred to her that there might be something wrong.

 

“I'm fine, Miss Fisher,” he says tersely. “If that's all?” Jack stands, and gestures towards the door.

 

“Jack.” He's surely imagining the hurt in her voice. “Is something the matter?” Her gaze is searching, and he can't deal with her sharp observations at the moment, he just can't.

 

He walks over to the door and waits as she stands and follows.

 

“Perhaps you could come over for supper tonight? We could talk then?” she says. Her hand lightly touches his arm; his jaw clenches and he turns his face away slightly.

 

“This isn't a good time. Good day, Miss Fisher.”

 

After a momentary hesitation, she leaves without any further questions, although seemingly puzzled over his behaviour.

 

By the evening some semblance of rationality has returned, his hangover has receded, and he is remorseful of his coldness towards her.

 

The telephone rings once, twice, three times. He grips the receiver tightly, and second guesses himself. Four.

 

“Miss Fisher's residence, Miss Williams speaking.”

 

“Good evening, Miss Williams. This is Inspector Robinson. I wonder if I would be able to speak with Miss Fisher?”

 

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Inspector, I'm afraid she's not here this evening. I don't think she'll be back until late, but I could take a message?”

 

Jack feels a little numb. “No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Miss Williams.”

 

He hangs up the telephone and wanders through to his house to the kitchen. The housekeeper has left him some supper, but it looks spectacularly unappetising.

 

Who was Phryne having supper with instead of him? If he'd said yes, would she have turned down them down?

 

He can't get her out of his mind all night. He tries Shakespeare, but even the Bard cannot comfort him tonight. He goes to bed early, but it is cold and lonely there. He misses her. God, he misses her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Jack!”

 

Please no, he's not sure he can take this two days in a row. Jack looks up to see Phryne close the door behind her, a vision all in white today. She wears a sunny smile, but he thinks he can see concern in her eyes.

 

“Miss Fisher. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Dot said you called last night? I wasn't sure if it was about a case...”

 

This time she doesn't bother with the chair, and comes straight around to perch on the corner of his desk. The smell of her perfume is wonderful, and he is struck by a powerful need to wrap his arms around her and breath her in. He wonders if she would let him, no questions asked. He wonders if she would kiss him, and never tell him about the other men she sees. He's not sure he could live like that.

 

“No,” he says, and distracts himself by straightening the files on his desk. “No case.”

 

“Well, what was it about?” Phryne asks when nothing more is forthcoming.

 

“I was just checking something. It is no longer relevant.”

 

“Oh.” She makes a small moue of displeasure, but makes no move to leave.

 

“How was your evening?” Jack asks, clearing his throat.

 

“My evening?”

 

“Yes, I believe Miss Williams said that you had gone out.” Jack doesn't know why he's asking, some new desire to punish himself perhaps.

 

“Yes. Some friends called and asked me to go dancing with them.”

 

“Is that what they're calling it now?” It's a sentence which could easily have been part of their normal back and forth, except that it comes out sharp and bitter.

 

She looks at him for a moment, bewildered. “Jack?”

 

“Why are you here, Miss Fisher?” he says brusquely. He is suddenly impatient to have her gone again, despite his previous longing to see her. She is... confusing. But then, that's nothing new. No, it is his own reaction to her at the moment which he does not know how to process.

 

“Well, I wanted to see you. It's been a while since we've talked, and I-”

 

“And who's fault is that?” His own irrational accusation irks him further. 

 

“What? Jack-”

 

“Trying to get hold of you is like a wild goose chase.” His hands form fists on his desk.

 

“What are you talking about?” she says. And he tips over the edge of a chasm he didn't even know was there, abruptly so full of anger he can't think straight.

 

“Do you not run out of candidates eventually? Or are you actually using some of them more than once.” Her head jerks up, and she inhales sharply. “What, just because I didn't come crawling back to your door two weeks ago, you felt the need to go out and plough through-”

 

Her hand whips up to slap him and then stops a few inches from his face. Breathing hard, he looks at her. Her cheeks are bright red, and her eyes shiny. They sit in terrible silence for a minute, and he watches the indignation build in her face.

 

“Just to make sure I understand you,” she says incredulously, voice tight with outrage, “you thought I was so angry with you for not visiting that I felt the need to go out and sleep with half the population of Melbourne to punish you? Jack, I haven't-” She cuts herself off and stands, smooths down her skirt with a furious motion, and walks to the door without looking back. He is frozen in place, he cannot move or speak. She pauses with her hand on the handle, face still turned away.

 

“I wasn't angry with you,” she says, and now she sounds sad, which is much worse. “I just didn't want to make things awkward for you by coming to the station while things were being cleared up with Sanderson. Perhaps I should have called, but I thought you might need time to sort things out.

 

“I wasn't angry with you, Jack,” and her voice goes cold, “But I damn well am now.”

 

She slams the door so hard he's amazed the glass doesn't break.

 

Jack buries his head in his hands and desperately wishes he still had some alcohol left in his office.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack finishes work at around seven o' clock, has a brief debate with himself in which one side emerges overwhelmingly the victor, and leaves with the aim of making an apology and continuing their conversation.

 

There is a long wait for someone to answer his knock, and then Miss Williams opens the door. She seems surprised to see him.

 

“Inspector!” Reaching out to the side, she snags her coat and hat, and he realises that she is on her way out.

 

“Good evening, Miss Williams. Is there any chance I could speak to Miss Fisher?”

 

The uncertainty on Miss Williams' face solidifies into a surprisingly stern expression. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”

 

Jack turns his hat in his hands, feeling awkward standing in the doorway. “I wanted to apologise to her,” he says honestly, and her face softens a bit.

 

“Be that as it may, Inspector, I'm under orders to let no one in.” No one, or just him, he wonders. “And I'm afraid I'm heading out to visit my sister.”

 

“I'm sorry to trouble you then.” Jack starts to take a step back, and hears feminine laughter coming from the parlour. Miss Williams looks guiltily over her shoulder for a moment, then steps out after him and closes the door. Phryne is obviously at home, and has company. He walks Miss Williams to the bus stop, and takes his leave.

 

When he puts his hat down on the passenger seat, he finds that his grip on it has managed to bend it quite out of shape.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The morrow brings no Miss Fisher, but instead a visit from her doctor friend at lunch time.

 

“I don't even know why I'm here,” she announces as she strides into his office.

 

“Dr. Macmillan.” He stands to greet her, but she flops into the other chair with little ceremony.

 

“So explain to me why I had to get roaring drunk with Phryne last night?”

 

“ _You_ were with her last night?” Jack says, relieved despite himself. “Drunk?”

 

“Oh yes, as a possum who's eaten a barrel of fermented fruit.” She seems quite cheerful about this, however.

 

“I'm not sure I know-”

 

The doctor becomes abruptly serious. “Oh, I suspect you do. Before we became completely incoherent I managed to extract enough information to know that you've apparently been quite beastly to her. She's also blaming you for the fact that she now has to go out and sleep with half of Australia, but then for all I know that was one of her life goals to begin with. Out with it. What happened?”

 

Jack feels as though he's being reprimanded by a school master. “I may have made some unjust accusations against Miss Fisher.” He swallows, and finds that he cannot repeat them; not least because he fears she would punch him.

 

“And what if they hadn't been unjust?” He looks up sharply, and finds her watching him with a gimlet eye. “What if she had been entertaining herself with half of the country? Would that have given you any right to speak to her that way?”

 

“No,” he says gravely. “No it wouldn't." Though he would, perhaps, have to give up any hope that they could reach a new understanding. "I was completely out of line, and I should never have spoken to her like that.”

 

She leans back, apparently satisfied with his sincerity. “Do you know how many times in my life I've seen Phryne cry?”

 

His chest feels tight. The implication being that she cried last night.

 

“No,” he says quietly.

 

“Well then.” She taps her hat against her knee. “Fix this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's somewhat hard to fix anything, of course, when he can't pin her down. Miss Fisher's out with friends, with relatives, on a robbery case, at a ball. Jack has no doubt it's all true – she's a busy woman after all. She just always made time for him, before. Perhaps he never realised quite how often she would put other things aside in order to sit and talk to him of an evening.

 

He does leave a message for her, over the telephone to Mr Butler, asking if she would have time to speak with him. He receives a return message, handed to him by Collins, asking what it's about. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters to himself.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Nothing, Collins. I just can't seem to get hold of Miss Fisher.”

 

“Well, it sounds like it's a busy week for her with the charity gala,” his constable says. “And then Dottie says there's that gentleman calling every day that she seems quite taken with.”

 

“Does she?” Jack pretends to be unaffected by this piece of information.

 

“Perhaps you'd have more luck next week, sir. Was it something urgent?”

 

Jack goes back to his office, sits down, picks up his pen, examines it carefully, puts it down again.

 

“Collins,” he says loudly.

 

The constable sticks his head around the door. “Yes sir?”

 

“See what you can find out from Miss Williams about the gentleman who's calling. I'm worried about any possible threats to Miss Fisher after our recent case.”

 

“Oh, I hadn't thought of that, sir! I'll ask.”

 

“Discreetly, Collins.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

It's entirely possible that Collins is incapable of being discreet, and Jack thinks of Miss Fisher's probable reaction if she discovers he's trying to investigate her lovers. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if it's too late to move to Europe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The report comes two days later.

 

“About the gentleman, sir? The one that Miss Fisher has been seeing.”

 

“Ah, yes, very good, Collins. Go ahead.”

 

His constable flips open a notebook. Jack has a sudden vision of him jotting notes down while he spoke with Miss Williams, and has to close his eyes briefly in despair.

 

“Baron of Renfrew,” Collins reads. “Currently in Australia visiting old schoolfriends; he's been here for a month. Staying with his friends the Kirkpatricks. Leaving date unknown. He doesn't seem directly connected with your father... ex-father-in-law, or with Mr Fletcher.”

 

“You asked Miss Williams if he was-” Jack can hear the horror in his own voice.

 

“Oh, no, sir. I did some research of my own. I thought that if there was a chance he was a suspicious character, it was worth looking into. He seems to be on the up and up though.”

 

“Well done, Collins.”

 

Jack wants to know what he and Phryne been doing together, but can think of no way of phrasing that which doesn't come across as just blatant snooping. Mainly because that's what it would be.

 

Luckily, his constable is in a talkative mood. “Dottie says it's funny, she didn't think Miss Fisher thought much of him at first, but then about a week ago she suddenly started spending more time with him.” That would be right after Jack insulted her, then. “She says he makes Miss Fisher laugh a lot.”

 

“Well,” Jack says, attempting to rally himself, “We all know how much Miss Fisher likes to laugh.”

 

“Yes, sir! Dottie says she's never seen Miss Fisher spend this much time with one of her gentlemen callers before.”

 

Jack swallows hard, but can't seem to get past the lump in his throat.

 

“Do you think she might be in love with him, sir?” Collins asks suddenly, and forget being punched in the gut, this is like being shot.

 

“That will be all, Collins,” he says.

 

Once his constable has left the office, Jack rests his head in his hands for a moment. He's always feared that someday another man might sweep her away from him, but Phryne and romantic commitment are not words that normally go together in a sentence. If she was ever willing to entertain the idea of being with someone for more than a brief fling, he had hoped it would be him. They have shared so much – not just their cases but their hopes and fears. He finds her easier to talk to than anyone else these days, and more and more frequently he feels like she allows herself to be open and vulnerable in front of him. He doubts she's ever shared as much with any of her lovers.

 

But this... Yes, he hates the thought of someone else touching her, but the thought of another man enjoying conversations with her day after day - being the one she confides in, the one she goes to when she needs to talk - that is more deeply painful than he could have imagined.

 

Jack is an arrogant fool. What effort has he ever made to win her? His strategy has been to wait-and-see, assuming that she would come to him if she decided she was ready to try some sort of relationship. She has to know he loves her, after all; the fiasco when he cut himself off from her had all but declared it. But maybe she doesn't know he loves her enough.

 

After all, what have his actions been? He realised that he loved her, and in response cut all contact with her. When he saw her again, he told her he needed her to leave. She forced her way back into his life, and he'd never mentioned his feelings again. Beyond some light teasing and flirting, he's never made a single romantic overture towards her. And, after he was interrupted while trying to tell her that he would choose her over Rosie a few weeks before, he's made no attempt to see her again, and was cold and then abusive on the two occasions she's made an effort to come and see him.

 

He's made a right pig's ear of this.

 

On the other hand, she's only known this baron for a few weeks at most, and Collins had said she hadn't seemed too impressed with him at first. If she is just seeing him to divert herself, or to snap back from Jack's hurtful words, then maybe he's still in with a chance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack waits until Saturday, and then knocks at ten in the morning. It will either be unreasonably early to expect her to be awake, or she will have been up for hours if she's investigating something. Still, this is his best chance of catching her before her plans for the day. It makes him smile a little to realise how well he knows her habits.

 

“Inspector,” Mr Butler greets him at the door. He is shown inside, and Mr Butler takes his hat and coat. Considering his other recent attempts, Jack is thankful just to get past the front door.

 

“Mr Butler,” Jack says, “I would like to speak to Miss Fisher, but I understand that now might not be convenient. Would you have any idea if she would be free to see me today?”

 

Mr Butler eyes him measuringly. “Miss Fisher is not yet up, but I think she will definitely have time for you this morning, Inspector.” Jack breathes an internal sigh of relief. “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

 

Jack has had nothing but a slice of slightly burned toast this morning, so that sounds marvellous. In the kitchen are Miss Williams and Phryne's two red-raggers. Miss Williams smiles at him pleasantly enough, and the other two glare. Nothing unusual there then. He sits down and joins their meal, listening contentedly to the household chatter.

 

After half an hour, he begins to feel he may have outstayed his welcome. The remnants of breakfast are cleared away; Miss Williams picks up some sewing, and everyone else leaves the room.

 

“It's nice to see you here again, Inspector,” says Miss Williams quietly.

 

“Yes.” Jack clears his throat. “I was sorry not to come sooner.”

 

“Were you?” It's amazing how such a gently said sentence can sound so accusatory. Which he feels is more than a little unfair, as it's not as though he hasn't been trying. “Well, I'm sure you were very busy. Hugh says that things were a proper mess at the station for a while. He said without you he doesn't think City South would have pulled through.”

 

“Well,” Jack says awkwardly, “Constable Collins did a lot of fine work himself. I'm glad that it's over now though.”

 

“Yes,” she says innocently. “It's always awful when people betray you like that.” And then she leaves the table.

 

He stands to leave himself, and Mr Butler re-enters the room. “I'm sure it won't be long now, Inspector. If you don't mind waiting?” What choice does he have? Jack sits back down, and contemplates his cup of tea in silence for the next ten minutes while the butler bustles around the kitchen.

 

Finally, he hears Phryne's step on the stairs, hears her greeting to Miss Williams as she goes past the drawing room. Sees her framed in the entrance to the kitchen as she comes to an abrupt halt, staring at him. Ah, no one informed her he was here then.

 

“Good morning, Miss Fisher.”

 

“Good morning, Inspector,” she says coolly,

 

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wondered if I might have a quick word with you?” She nods, and moves to sit. “In private?” She looks as though she is about to protest.

 

“I'll heat your breakfast, miss, if you want to go through to the parlour first.”

 

Phryne looks at Mr Butler and then at Jack, outmanoeuvred. “Very well,” she says, and leads the way.

 

In the parlour, she won't look at him.

 

“Miss Fisher, I've come to apologise for my behaviour the other day. It was uncalled for.”

 

He sees her mouth close on her instinctive response, and she turns to regard him closely. “I was surprised, Jack,” she quietly. “When I saw you the day before you were out of sorts, but you didn't say anything which suggested... And I hadn't even seen you for almost two weeks before that!”

 

“I know,” he says, and doesn't know how to explain.

 

She considers him for a moment. “Not that I have to justify myself to you, but I really was out dancing, Jack,” she says sincerely. He nods. 

 

He's thought it over, and the things which had seemed so pressing in his head at the time – seeing her at the gate with someone, when he had no idea if the man had gone inside the house, seeing flowers which could have been from an admirer she didn't care for, seem like a poor reason to have snapped at her in hindsight.  

 

She takes a deep breath. “Did you mean the things that you said?” 

 

And Jack can read in her face that he has hurt her, badly so, and that acknowledging he had the power to do so would have scared her. Perhaps that is why she is suddenly favouring this baron that Collins has told him about. 

 

“No,” he says honestly. “I was upset by something, and I lashed out. My words were hurtful, and I'm sorry for that.” 

 

She turns to face away from him, pretending to fix something on the side-table. Jack is acutely aware that he has damaged the trust between them. Over the whole course of his relationship with Miss Fisher he has been so careful never to judge her, never to criticise her way of life. Partially because he truly thinks no less of her for it, and partially because he has always sensed it would be the one thing to drive her away.

 

“Thank you for calling, Jack,” she says eventually, and he hears the dismissal in her tone.

 

“Miss Fisher.”

 

This will not be so easily fixed, but at least he has made a start.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The murder takes place two days later, and Jack feels a thrill in his gut for too many reasons to mention.

 

He's the one to pick up the telephone that lunchtime, to say, “City South Police Station, Inspector Robinson speaking.”

 

“Jack?” It's Phryne's voice. “I – there's been a suspicious death.” She's whispering, clearly not wanting to be overheard. “The family are saying it was an accident or a heart attack, but I think -”

 

“Where are you?” he asks quickly, grabbing a pen.

 

“I'm at the Kirkpatrick estate.” She gives him the address. “Mrs Kirkpatrick was found dead just before I arrived. I said I would telephone the police.”

 

“We'll be there immediately, Miss Fisher. Try to keep anyone from leaving or contaminating the scene.”

 

“I know that much, Jack,” she says indignantly before hanging up. He smiles to himself and shakes his head.

 

“Collins,” he says, “We've got a case. I'll bring the car around.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Kirkpatrick estate is large and intimidating. They are met at the front door by the butler, and shown through to the drawing room where everyone seems to be gathered. Jack's eyes are immediately drawn to Miss Fisher. There is a man sitting far too close to her, with his arm draped along the back of the sofa behind her. Jack forces himself to look at everyone else present as well, and introduces himself.

 

“It's simply horrible!” one of the ladies says. She is maybe twenty five, wearing a very unflattering dress, and has bushy black hair. “Mummy was a bit tired this morning, but she said she'd be fine to go riding with me this afternoon. And now she's dead!”

 

“And you are?” Jack asks, gesturing to Collins to make notes. He notices Miss Williams enter the room behind them; Miss Fisher must have called her in as well.

 

“I'm Mary,” she says, and then dissolves into tears.

 

One of the gentlemen steers her into a chair and offers her his handkerchief. “And I'm David.” He moves over and shakes Jack's hand. He has a firm grip. “Anne Kirkpatrick was my mother. As you can see, we're all very shocked by this tragic event. I'd really like to be able to send the ladies to their rooms.”

 

“I just need a few minutes with everybody first,” Jack says, “And then I'll need to see the body.” Mary's weeping increases in volume. Oh dear, that's the kind of thing Rosie would have said was insensitive. He sneaks a glance at Phryne, but if anything she seems slightly amused by the display. “Perhaps you could introduce everyone, Mr Kirkpatrick?”

 

“Right, yes, of course.” David gestures around the room from left to right. “This is my wife, Betty, my mother in law, Mrs Henderson, you've met Mary, this is the Honourable Phryne Fisher, Baron Renfrew, and our neighbour Mr Partridge.”

 

“Thank you. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you all to stay in the house while we conduct a preliminary investigation-” there are hushed whispers and protests, “but hopefully we will be able to release you all soon.”

 

The baron gets to his feet. He is a handsome man, late thirties, dark hair. He has an imposing presence, but then Jack isn't one to back down easily. “Look here, Inspector, I understand that you are just doing your job, but we really must think about the ladies.” He makes a slight gesture to Phryne, who is speaking quietly with Miss Williams. “I would very much like to take Miss Fisher home.” Jack processes this, and then fights the urge to crow gleefully. This man doesn't know her _at all_!

 

“I can only promise that we will work as quickly as possible, sir” he says, in a voice as even as he can make it.

 

The Baron moves back to Phryne's side, and places his hand possessively on her shoulder. He leans in to speak quietly into her ear, and Jack notices her angle her body away slightly.

 

Miss Williams uses the opportunity to subtly exit the room, and Collins, after an aborted attempt to hiss her name, goes after her. Jack turns back to Mr Kirkpatrick. “Could you tell me where I might find your mother?”

 

“Yes, I'll get one of the servants to show you.” David moves into the hallway and summons someone to guide them.

 

Jack waits at the door. “Miss Fisher?” In an instant she is out from under the baron's grasp and coming to join him, eager as always.

 

They follow the servant upstairs, and along enough corridors that Jack feels quite lost. He studiously avoids looking at Phryne, but can feel her gaze on him. Finally, as the servant indicates the bedroom door, he feels the weight of the silence grow unbearable.

 

“You seem to know one of the party quite well, Miss Fisher,” Jack says, and his voice is blissfully neutral.

 

“The baron? Yes. I've known him for a few weeks now.” She pauses as they enter the room, and they are left alone with the dead woman. “And I've been showing him the sights for the last week or so.” She doesn't sound like she's wildly in love with him, but then it's unlike her to allow a man to be so clearly possessive of her in company. 

 

“Don't tell me you're jealous, Jack?” she asks as she moves to search through the victim's pockets, and although her voice is teasing, there's an edge to it. Of course he's fucking jealous. This time he even has clear reason to be. But he's also treading on thin ice where she's concerned at the moment, so if she wants to play her little games she can do so alone. 

 

“Jealous, Miss Fisher?” he says coolly. “Of you showing his Lordship the sights?” Jack's voice dips just slightly on the word sights. 

 

“Well, it's been a long time since we went on the railway at Luna Park, Jack.” She picks up a handbag lying beside the bed. 

“Which is a pity. I would have liked to go again.” 

 

She stops mid-motion, and says, genuinely, “So would I.”

 

He holds her gaze for a moment, and then clears his throat and looks back at the body. There doesn't seem to be any obvious cause of death, or anything else of note as he examines her, apart from a small, unidentifiable mark on the side of her neck. Phryne starts to examine the rest of the room.

 

“We'll have to wait for the autopsy,” Jack says, opening the door. “I'll tell them they can come in and take the body. Do try not to steal any vital evidence before I get back, Miss Fisher.”

 

“No promises, Jack.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why did you think this was suspicious in the first place?” Jack asks, as they stand outside the drawing room.

 

“It was the way that they all reacted. Half of them went into overblown hysterics and the other half seemed to be hiding relief. And Mrs Kirkpatrick was perfectly healthy. What, she suddenly decided to lie down and die? No, there's something here, I can smell it.”

 

“How well do you know all of these people, exactly?”

 

“Not that well. I know David and his wife through the club.” Jack wasn't even going to ask which club, there were too many. “Mary I've met once before I think, and the rest of them not at all. And Robert of course, whom as I've told you I've known a few weeks.” She puts a particular emphasis on known which Jack knows is meant to wind him up. Punishment for his jibe about her bedding so many men. He smiles pleasantly at her, and says maybe they should split the interviews. She's pleased at the responsibility, and retrieves Miss Williams in order to make notes for her.

 

Jack starts with David Kirkpatrick, and Phryne with Mary. Jack can see her rolling her eyes over the woman's sobbing, and it's not like her to be unsympathetic. She must doubt the credibility of the girl's grief.

 

David provides information about the order of events that morning. His mother went up for a rest at twenty minutes past eleven; he remembers so exactly because he'd noticed the clock in the hall was slow compared to his watch. She wasn't prone to getting tired during the day, but she'd been going out on longer rides than usual recently. No, she hadn't been out for a ride that morning. No, he didn't know of any prior heart condition, but surely that had to be the cause?

 

From what Jack pieces together, Mrs Anne Kirkpatrick, David, his wife Betty and sister Mary were all in the house that morning. After Mrs Kirkpatrick went up to her bedroom, Mrs Henderson, the mother-in-law, arrived back from a walk at half past eleven, and the neighbour, Mr Partridge, came to visit shortly after, at which point they all had tea. Mrs Kirkpatrick was discovered dead by her maid at around half past twelve, just before Phryne and the Baron had arrived.

 

“I'll need to speak to the maid.”

 

“Of course, I'll have her fetched immediately.”

 

Miss Fisher seems to have made her way through most of the room, and comes to stand next to him. “Anything interesting?” Jack asks.

 

“ _Very_ interesting! Apparently, there may have been some possibility of Mrs Kirkpatrick changing her will. The neighbour, Mr Partridge, suggests that she may have been going on all of these long rides alone in order to try and clear her head and make a difficult decision. Mary, on the other hand, says that her mother's health was poor, and she was riding for the exercise – she doesn't think there is _any_ possibility her mother would change the will. But then she was also lying through her teeth half the time. Mrs Henderson had very little to say, but was snide enough to indicate that she and Mrs Kirkpatrick didn't get along. How about you?”

 

“Well, I have a rough timeline of events – I'll need to check with everyone where they were throughout the morning and interview all of the servants. Apparently her maid found her; I'm going to speak with her now.”

 

Phryne smiles cheekily. “Ah yes, Frances. Dot very kindly went and had a cup of tea with her in the kitchen to keep her calm.”

 

Jack closes his eyes for a moment. “Of course she did. Did she happen to find out anything interesting?”

 

“Well, she says that the maid was very frightened because Mrs Kirkpatrick moved even after she was dead.”

 

“What?” Jack turns to face her, and in the confined space of the corridor they end up close. Very close.

 

“Yes.” Phryne's eyes sparkle up at him, and she seems more than comfortable with the proximity. “Frances said that when she found Mrs Kirkpatrick she wasn't breathing. Except that then the body started to jerk and shake for a few minutes. It went still again right before David got there – he'd followed the screaming – so no one else saw it and she's afraid to tell in case it was the devil.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, that's very helpful.”

 

“Oh, and Jack,” she says as he turns to leave. “I may have found this-” she holds up a pale silk scarf, “Down by the side of the bed. Look, there's a circular impression here, and a tiny hole.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Fisher,” Jack says with a sigh. “Please give it to Constable Collins as evidence.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

His own initial interviews with everyone completed, Jack heads back to the station. Apart from David and Mary, there's his wife, Betty, who seems too timid to hurt anyone and barely spoke at all. Then there's Betty's mother, who declared herself terribly inconvenienced by the whole thing and wouldn't stop fidgeting – with her dress, with her bag, with the clip in her hair. And Mr Partridge, who was the odd one out – Jack can't figure out how he fits into the picture at all. He asks Collins to dig into the background of all the household members and guests.

 

“Even Miss Fisher and the baron, sir?”

 

What a tempting opportunity. Jack looked into Miss Fisher the first time he met her, of course, since she was a potential suspect, but that had only been a very shallow skim of what he now knew to be a very deep pool. He'd never looked again, both because it would have been a gross breach of her privacy, and because it was much more rewarding to draw nuggets information out of her himself. And this baron, oh yes, Jack wants to know about him. Although the man is somehow less of a threat now that Phryne is working on a case with Jack again. Especially since he thought she'd rather be taken home than stay at a house where someone had just died.

 

“No, Collins, they arrived after the death, so at this point we aren't considering them as suspects.”

 

“Is it definitely a murder, sir?” Jack sighs.

 

“I don't know. Miss Fisher thinks it is,” he says.

 

“She's usually right about these things, isn't she, Inspector?” And Jack doesn't even need to dignify that with a reply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Jack sees Miss Fisher is over the autopsy table at the morgue the following morning. He hadn't bothered informing her when the report would be, knowing that she would weasel it out of Collins or Dr. Macmillan. She probably had more fun this way.

 

“Well,” the doctor starts, “there are no visible wounds anywhere on her body, and no obvious cause of death by foul play. Her blood tested negative for any common poisons or drugs. On the other hand, she seems completely healthy, and without any family history of heart trouble it does seem potentially suspicious.”

 

“What about the body jerking and twitching after death,” asks Phryne.

 

“Bodies can do that, sometimes as muscles contract they can cause spasms or other movement.”

 

“But how severely? The maid said it was like the body was possessed!”

 

Dr. Macmillam gives Phryne a look. “The very fact that she said that makes me doubt how accurate her account is. Maybe one of the arms twitched slightly, and she exaggerated. Or maybe the maid was wrong about her being dead, and she was having some kind of fit.”

 

“What about the mark on the neck?” asks Jack.

 

“Ah, yes, now that's more promising. While I say there are no visible wounds on the body, I think that there might have been something, perhaps a needle or something similarly sharp, inserted there – leaving nothing but the tiniest spot behind. Although that's not what's caused the discolouration around it. That looks as though the blood vessels near the surface have burst; perhaps due to a strong pinch, or if she was injected with something which did damage to the surrounding tissue. I'll have to examine it further, and test for any localised substances. That's all I can tell you at the moment.”

 

“Thanks, Mac.” Phryne blows her a kiss as they leave. Jack's lips twitch into a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They drive back to the Kirkpatrick estate for a second round of interviews. Miss Williams accompanies them, but disappears as soon as they are shown through the door. There is no evidence of the baron being present, and Jack relaxes.

 

So far, none of the family or guests has an alibi for the whole of the window of time between 11:20 and 12:30. Each of them went off alone at some point, so any one of them could have done it.

 

“Isn't it interesting,” Miss Fisher says before they meet the family again, “that Mary said she was going to go riding with her mother yesterday, if Anne always went riding alone.”

 

“Yes, yes it is. Perhaps we should start with her.”

 

Mary bursts into tears the moment they sit her down alone in the dining room. Jack is beginning to see why Phryne finds it so annoying. And he's always been bad with crying women.

 

“Ahem, Miss Kirkpatrick?” He offers her his handkerchief and then tugs at his collar. Phryne glances at him amusedly.

 

“Mary,” she says soothingly, “why don't you tell us a bit more about your plan for yesterday. You said you were going to go riding with your mother that afternoon?”

 

“Yes.” Mary blows her nose loudly. “Yes, it was unusual because she never asks me. You'd think we were barely related for all the time she normally wants to spend with me.” Phryne arches an eyebrow at Jack, and he nods slightly. “So I thought, great, finally she wants to talk about something other than the latest evening wear or why I'm not married yet. And now she's dead.” Mary descends into a series of wails, each more powerful than the last. Jack is more than ready to end the interview, but Phryne motions at him to wait.

 

“You said she never asked _you_ to go riding?” Phryne says. “Did she normally go with someone else?”

 

“Well, sometimes she'd go out with Mr Partridge...” Mary hiccoughs, and then buries her face in the soggy handkerchief. Jack really doesn't ever want that back.

 

“I see. Thank you, Miss Kirkpatrick, you've been a great help.”

 

“Perhaps a quick chat with the neighbour?” Phryne suggests once Miss Kirkpatrick has been shown out.

 

“Why, Miss Fisher, you've read my mind.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mr John Partridge is a neighbour in the same sense that Phryne is neighbours with the police station – he visits a lot but isn't actually that geographically close.

 

“You're a widower, is that right, Mr Partridge?” Jack asks.

 

“Yes, my Margaret hasn't been with me for some ten years now.”

 

“If you don't mind my asking,” Phryne says delicately, “how did Mrs Partridge...”

 

“Oh, it was on the sea voyage over from England. She took terribly ill – pneumonia they said – and no one could do anything for her. My poor, dear Maggie.” Miss Fisher seems to lose interest in the conversation, and moves over to the window.

 

“So you've been here for ten years now?” Jack tries to get the interview back on track.

 

“No, I've been here longer. Eleven, maybe twelve years now. My wife was coming out to join me, you see.”

 

“And could you remind me how long you've known the Kirkpatricks?”

 

“Well the children not so long, David and his wife only moved in about a year ago. Mary perhaps three? But Anne and her husband Henry, I'd known them since the very beginning.”

 

“We've been informed that you frequently rode out with Mrs Kirkpatrick,” Phryne says, rejoining them.

 

“Well, I wouldn't have said frequently.” Mr Partridge starts sweating. Interesting.

 

“How frequently, exactly?” Jack asks.

 

“What did you talk about?” Phryne asks on top of him. She looks at him in mild irritation, but he repeats his question and doesn't back down. He never has before, he won't start now.

 

“Just for a few rides recently. I think she was lonely.” Phyrne asks her question again. “It's funny,” Mr Partridge says, “I think she's actually been more sad the last few months than when she was on her own after her husband died. She talked about all sorts of things, about good and evil, about whether we get what we deserve.” He hesitates, then adds, “She talked about her children. I think she thought one of them had done something very bad.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Partridge, we appreciate you speaking to us.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So perhaps David or Mary were to be disinherited due to something they'd done which Anne found out about?” Phryne says, reasoning it out.

 

“Perhaps. Although we have only Mr Partridge's word that there was any trouble of the sort. On the other hand, we do know that he was going for long rides alone with her.”

 

“You think they were lovers?”

 

“It's a possibility.”

 

“And he killed her because she wanted to end the affair?”

 

“We don't even technically know there's been a murder yet, Miss Fisher,” he says with some asperity.

 

“Why are you investigating it then, Jack?” she asks teasingly, and strolls away from him with a sway in her hips. “Come along, we need to pick up Dot from the estate.”

 

“What was she doing there anyway?” Jack grumbles, but picks up his pace to open the car door for her. He puts his hand at the small of her back automatically as he ushers her in, and she pauses ever so slightly as though to allow his touch to linger.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Macmillan sends him a further report the next day, and with some kind of sixth sense Miss Fisher shows up at midday. She brings lunch with her, so he can't even pretend to be annoyed as she swoops down on the folder. He's far too busy digging into the hamper.

 

“She says that there are traces of a foreign substance in the tissue under the mark under her neck,” Phryne reads, “and that the mark is definitely the result of bleeding into the skin. As it's a perfectly circular mark, she suggests it was made by an object rather than someone's fingers.” She closes the file and taps it against her lips. Jack doesn't find that distracting at all. “Interesting,” she muses. “What kind of object would cause a perfectly round bruise, and possibly inject something at the same time?

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“Well, perhaps it's time we talked to David again. I rather think, Inspector, that this has just officially become a murder investigation.”

 

“Excellent idea. Luckily, I've phoned ahead and invited him down to the station just for your pleasure.” Phryne's mouth quirks up at one corner. “Now, may I finish my lunch?”

 

She moves around the table and sits on his desk in her usual place. The contrast between today and the last time she sat there strikes him forcibly. He'd been tired, stressed, convinced she'd had a parade of lovers in her bed, and wanted to make her as miserable as she was making him. Today he feels as though their natural rhythm is somewhat restored, although ironically she now probably does have another man in her bed, and one whom she's been with longer than most.

 

“I hope you aren't planning on stealing anything, Miss Fisher,” he says as her hand sneaks towards the hamper. For all that she delights in feeding him, Phryne also frequently helps herself to his breakfast or lunch when she visits. “Being an officer of the law, I would of course be obliged to take police action.”

 

Her hand dips into the basket and retrieves a scone. “Are you going to try and arrest me again, Jack?” she asks, laughing. “You know that never ends well.”

 

“What, with you getting innocent bystanders to hold my constable at gunpoint?” In truth, he finds it hard to joke about, knowing how close she had come to following her beloved sister that day. Jack still remembers Phryne's weight in his arms, how pale she was, how her head had lolled back and he thought she had stopped breathing.

 

“Perhaps I shall have to be more inventive this time,” she says. “Besides, I think you will find that this hamper and the lunch contained within belongs to me, and while I may be generous enough to share-”

 

“Oh, thank you for your condescension, Miss Fisher.”

 

“- I am still the official owner. Thus my lawyer would have great fun with you if you tried to arrest me.”

 

“You have a lawyer?”

 

“I employed one especially in preparation for my dealings with you, Jack.”

 

She finishes her purloined scone, and fishes a napkin out of the hamper.

 

“Here,” she says, “you've got -” She reaches over and dabs the napkin at the corner of his mouth. Time seems to freeze for a long moment, as he feels her fingertip graze across his lips. She suddenly seems to realise that she has moved practically into his lap, and pulls back, but she holds his gaze. He can feel the phantom of her touch on his mouth. Jack doesn't know how long they would have held in that tableau, with anticipation building between them, if Collins hadn't knocked on the door.

 

“Mr Kirkpatrick is here,” he says, and the moment is lost.

 

 

* * *

 

 

David Kirkpatrick appears slightly nervous. Jack isn't sure if he came in that way, or if Phryne has already managed to throw him off balance.

 

“Nonsense,” David says. “Mother would never have changed her will. And I don't know what you mean to infer about her rides with Mr Partridge, but-”

 

“What was her problem with Mary?” Phryne says, interrupting him. Jack is content to let her lead.

 

“With – with Mary?” David seems surprised. “There was no problem between the two of them.”

 

“Then why did your sister say that her mother barely spoke with her? Was it tension over wanting her to marry?”

 

“No. Yes. Look, you've got the wrong idea. Yes, mother wanted her to get married, because she worried about the shame of having a daughter be a spinster.” Jack notices Phryne develop a tic in her jaw. “But the only problem was just that the two of them didn't have anything in common. And Mary always resented mother for sending her so far away to school.”

 

“What about this note?” Which Phryne produces from her sleeve with a flourish. Jack feels consternation for a moment – he should have seen that coming – and then looks at her reprovingly. She pointedly ignores his stare. “It's your handwriting. And you demand that 'you apologise to her.' I'm assuming the her in question is Mary?”

 

“Where did you get that?” David looks bewildered.

 

“Yes, Miss Fisher, where _did_ you get that,” Jack asks.

 

“I happened to find it in Mrs Kirkpatrick's handbag,” Phryne says nonchalantly.

 

“No, it wasn't about my sister. That was – I asked her to apologise to Betty. To my wife, after they had a terrible row. I don't know what it was about, but she said some nasty things to Betty. But that was months ago! I have no idea why she kept the note.”

 

“Perhaps it was still fresh in someone's mind,” says Jack.

 

 

* * *

 

 

To be honest, Jack has been so swept up in the case and his renewed ease with Miss Fisher, that he'd mostly forgotten any rival for her affections existed. However, Miss Fisher wants to take her own motor car, so Jack and Collins pile into the police car and Collins catches him up on the latest news during the drive.

 

According to Miss Williams, the night before last the baron had taken Miss Fisher out for dinner, though he hadn't come back to the house with her. Yesterday, since he hadn't been able to visit, he sent another massive bouquet and some sheet music for the piano.

 

“Miss Fisher doesn't play,” Jack says, secure once again that he knows her better.

 

Collins glances at him, surprised. “Yes she does, sir. I've heard her play before, and Dottie said it's her favourite thing to do late at night – keeps them all awake though none of them complain.”

 

“But she always told me...” Jack trails off. She always says she'd much rather hear him play, and that she'd never been much for the piano. _Because she wanted to hear him play_. He sits a little straighter.

 

“I mean, she went to all those fancy finishing schools, sir. It would be funny if they let her out without knowing how to play the piano.”

 

Jack tries to imagine them 'letting' Phryne out, and can't. She would have left when she damn well pleased.

 

He suddenly wants to hear her play more than anything in the world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Betty Kirkpatrick is a slight, mousey woman that you wouldn't look twice at in a room. Jack thinks she and David make an odd couple – he would have pegged the other man as someone who valued beauty over other considerations.

 

“Could you tell us what your argument with Anne Kirkpatrick was about?” he asks. Luckily, Betty doesn't seem like the sort to dissolve into tears like her sister-in-law.

 

“My argument? What argument?”

 

“David mentioned you had a row with Anne some time ago, and that he'd asked her to apologise to you.”

 

Betty seems to struggle to remember. “There was – we did disagree over something a while back, but it wasn't really an argument. I had no idea David asked her to apologise.”

 

“Liar,” says a voice from the doorway. They turn to find Mary standing there, listening to their conversation. “You two yelled so loud I could hear it from my room at the other end of the corridor. And then you wouldn't speak to each other for weeks.”

 

“When was this,” Jack asks, digging out his notebook.

 

“Maybe two months ago,” Mary says. “It was after that Mummy started going out on her rides. She couldn't even stand to be in the same house as you!”

 

“Mary-” Betty starts, but Mary is already gone, slamming the door behind her.

 

“So,” says Miss Fisher, “shall we try that again? What was your argument about?”

 

“Nothing,” Betty says desperately, and Jack can see that she's terrified.

 

“May I remind you this is a murder investigation,” he says. “If you are unwilling to cooperate, I shall have to take you down to the station.” Betty just shakes her head again, and Jack tells Collins to take her back to the car.

 

“I wonder,” says Phryne thoughtfully, “what she would be so afraid of telling us? What did Mr Partridge say? Something about the nature of good and evil?” She thinks for a moment. “I think we need to speak to Dot.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack risks life and limb by agreeing to ride in Miss Fisher's car, and they arrive at her house in far, far less time than it should have taken. He renews his promise to himself never to drive with her again.

 

“Dot?” Miss Fisher calls as they enter the kitchen.

 

“Yes, miss?” Miss Williams puts aside the food she is preparing, and wipes her hands

 

“I wonder if you could cast your mind back to all that lovely information you gathered yesterday.” Phryne glances at Jack quickly, and he rolls his eyes at her.

 

“What were you wanting to know, miss?”

 

“I'm interested in any secrets which David's wife, Betty, may have been keeping. Particularly any immoral or illegal ones which might have caused a falling out with her mother-in-law.”

 

Miss Williams thinks for a moment. She gets up, and puts the kettle on. Jack opens his mouth, but a gesture from Phryne silences him as her companion absently starts fixing a pot of tea.

 

“Well,” Miss Williams says, finally, “there was one thing.”

 

“Yes, Dot?”

 

“One of the upstairs maids said that she thought that Mrs Kirkpatrick might have had a problem a few months ago.”

 

“What sort of a problem?” Phryne asks. Miss Williams glances briefly at Jack.

 

“Whatever it is, you can say it, Miss Williams.”

 

“She didn't say anything for sure, but there were a few things which, taken together, miss, might imply that Mrs Kirkpatrick could have lost a baby.”

 

“Really?” Phryne says with interest. “Lost, I wonder, or forcibly evicted? I would think abortion is exactly the sort of sin Anne Kirkpatrick might have found unforgivable.”

 

“And certainly one which Betty Kirkpatrick could not admit to arguing about,” Jack says.

 

“Very good, Jack!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They speak to Mrs Kirkpatrick in the cells, and this time she does break down in tears. She hadn't wanted the baby, because it hadn't been David's, and he would have known it. Only, somehow, his mother had found out. She'd threatened to tell David, and more recently had made it clear to Betty that she would cut them both out of her will since she could not countenance the presence of such evil in her family.

 

“Who have you told about this,” asks Phryne, with a tone in her voice which says she already knows the answer.

 

“Only my mother.”

 

They leave the cell, perfectly in step.

 

“We have a motive, but we still don't have a murder weapon,” says Jack.

 

“Don't worry, Jack, I think we'll find one soon enough,” Phryne says with confidence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They find Mrs Henderson sitting on the bed in her room at the estate, staring out of the window. She looks at them, and seems to know why they have come.

 

“I couldn't let that stupid woman do that to my girl,” she begins hopelessly. “I couldn't let her blacken her name and cast her off into the gutter.”

 

“No, I imagine not.” Miss Fisher sits on the bed beside her. “What did you use?”

 

An exotic poison from the Far East, it turned out, which she had bought from someone down at the docks. Collins would have turned that up in a day or two; he was pursuing inquires down there.

 

“May I see your hair clip,” asks Phryne, and with some reluctance the older woman withdraws the beautiful and ornate clip and hands it over.

 

“They told me I had to get it deep enough for the poison to work and look natural, you see,” says Mrs Henderson.

 

There is a spring in the hair fastening which causes the two sides to press together to grip hair. An extra wire has been strung across it, into which could be threaded a long needle. When the clip is opened, the needle would withdraw. When it is allowed to spring shut, the needle would spring out of the end. The perfectly round end of the hairclip, which would have pinched the skin harshly through Mrs Kirkpatrick's silk scarf as it sprung shut.

 

“I wonder that she didn't cry out,” says Phryne.

 

Mrs Henderson shrugged. “I held my hand over her mouth just before. What is one more thing? It is done.”

 

Jack takes her away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mary will be alright,” Phryne says when she meets him back at the station. “Her brother will make sure she's taken care of and given a decent allowance. Perhaps this way she won't have to be married off to avoid the 'shame' of spinsterhood.”

 

“And Mr and Mrs Kirkpatrick?”

 

“I have no idea. I know he loves her, very much.” Jack looks at her, surprised. “Oh yes. But I don't know if that will survive this; knowing that she was unfaithful to him, that she lied about it and got rid of the baby.”

 

“Infidelity is a difficult thing for any marriage to overcome.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “It is. Not that I'm a great believer in marriage, but you should never make a promise you don't mean to keep.” As she starts to leave she hesitates and turns back to him. “Jack, would you like to come round for a drink later?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher,” he replies, “I would like that very much.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Phryne pours them both a glass of whisky, and God, he's missed this, being here with her. Somewhere along the line it has become a necessary part of his life. They raise their glasses to closing another successful case, and Jack feels as if things have somehow righted themselves between them. At least in terms of their friendship. In terms of everything else...

 

“Do you like him, this baron of yours?” Jack asks eventually.

 

Phryne regards him seriously for a moment. “I haven't seen Robert since the night of the murder, Jack,” she says.

 

“I see.” What does that mean? “I had thought you were close,” he says dryly.

 

“No. Well-” she grins at him, and he holds up a hand before she gives him details he really doesn't want to hear. Sobering again, she adds slowly, “Perhaps I understand what you meant before, about lashing out because you were upset. I realised that day that I was – That he was -” She stops, shrugging, and looks down.

 

“Phryne, I-”

 

“I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I was never really that interested in him. And I told him that I wouldn't be seeing him again.” She looks at Jack. “In fact,” she says, cautiously, “I think my social calendar might be a lot more selective from now on.” 

 

Jack wants so badly to reach out and touch her – to cup her face and kiss her. But he needs for there to be no more misunderstandings between them. “There's a second part to my apology from before, Miss Fisher.”

 

“I rather think I was still on the first part of mine, Jack,” she says gently. After a moment she tilts her head for him to continue. 

 

“When I said I lashed out -” He pauses and stares into his drink. “Phryne, the reason I said those things-” He is stopped by her fingers across his mouth.

 

“Jack,” she says softly. “Do you know why I said no to the baron?” Said no implies the man had asked something, which Jack tries not to think about too hard. 

 

“No,” Jack says, voice hoarse. 

 

“He was handsome, rich, an excellent dancer. Very witty.” She smiles at Jack. “He lacked certain qualities I look for in a man, however.” His head lifts slightly, and he meets her gaze. “He didn't see me for who I really am. He didn't listen to me. He certainly wouldn't have let me do anything remotely dangerous. And,” her voice becomes teasing, “he didn't have the ability to get me into crime scenes.”

 

“Phryne.” Jack's heart is in his throat.

 

“Jack.” 

 

“Phryne, I-” He stops, reaches out and takes her hand. “I don't say this with any agenda, Phryne. I'm not sure I can ever be what you want, but I wanted you to know that I'm yours. I have been for a very long time now. And in whatever way you need me,” Jack's voice shakes slightly, “I promise myself to you.” 

 

She places her hands on his chest, smoothing them down to grip his lapels. "Jack," she says, and her tone sends his pulse skyrocketing, "you are exactly what I want. You never,” and she lightly brushes her lips over his, “ever, have to doubt that.” She rocks back on her heels, eyes dancing with happiness and mischief, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think that Jack gets any more jealous here than he does in season three, so hopefully his reaction fits with canon.


End file.
